The WeekEnd
by whatthefoucault
Summary: Set between The Curse Of Peladon and The Sea Devils, the Doctor invites the recently divorced Brigadier to a nice planet on his weekend off. Mayhem ensues.
1. Chapter 1

"Brigadier, you're in... blue jeans," exclaimed the Doctor, astonished.

"Am I?" replied the Brigadier with dull surprise, glancing down at his comfortably snug denim casual trousers, which flared slightly from the knee. The Brigadier was almost surprised it had taken the Doctor so long to notice. "Apparently I am. I wonder how that happened?"

It had, in fact, happened that the Brigadier had somewhat grudgingly acquiesced to the Doctor's request that they meet in the TARDIS to spend the Brigadier's much-needed holiday weekend together, a wee little pity party of raucous man fun to celebrate his divorce from Fiona being made official. He was certain that this was absolutely the last thing he needed. Given his druthers, the Brigadier would likely have spent the weekend in the company of a fine single malt and absolutely no one and nothing else, but since the Doctor's arrival as UNIT's scientific advisor, nothing ever seemed to pass without incident.

It was all the Brigadier could do to hide his bemused disappointment, however, that of all the places in the universe the Doctor could have taken him, they seemed to have landed in what appeared to be, for all intents and purposes, the Lake District.

"So what exactly are we doing here, Doctor?" asked the Brigadier, casually poking at a nearby shrub with the toe of his boot.

"Don't touch that, Brigadier, it could be explosive!" exclaimed the Doctor, guiding the Brigadier out of harm's way.

"For god's sake, man, it's only a bit of shrubbery," protested the Brigadier, as the Doctor idly plucked a small stone from the ground, "surely, you're not telling me -"

The Brigadier's train of thought was quite rudely interrupted by the Doctor tossing said stone at the shrub, the resulting explosion catapulting them both several feet backwards.

"If that had been you, it could have singed your moustache clean off," said the Doctor with an obnoxiously convivial grin, brushing the gravelly dust from the Brigadier's smart safari jacket.

"Yes, thank you Doctor," eyerolled the Brigadier, surveying the landscape suspiciously. "Any other hazards you'd care to enlighten me about?"

"Just stay clear of the shrubs, my dear," assured the Doctor, leading the way. "I assure you, everything else here is quite safe."

"Why do I find that hard to believe?" sighed the Brigadier, shaking his head.

* * *

The separation had been Fiona's idea - she had announced one night, as they cleared the dishes from the kitchen table, that she had signed a lease on a two-bedroom flat in Guildford, and she and Kate would be moving out at the end of the month. He acquiesced without protest, without lip service to The Way Things Used To Be or hollow promises of change they both knew to be untrue. He told her he understood. It was all he could say. It was a Tuesday. They had had profiteroles. That Noel Harrison chap's song about windmills and circles was playing on the radio. The Brigadier had always rather liked that song, before.

* * *

The evidence that the Doctor had taken them further afield than the Lake District was becoming more transparent as they continued on their journey: exploding shrubs were the Brigadier's first clue, followed by the small dirt footpath the shade of saffron, and the now unmistakably visible second sun shining high above them in the sky, whose blue almost verged on a touch of purple, was pretty much a dead giveaway.

"Your shirt," observed the Doctor, watching him strangely, as though deeply puzzled.

"What," sighed the Brigadier, shrugging off his jacket in the midday heat.

"It's got Geneva written on it," the Doctor continued, squinting at the silkscreened word as though it were an unfortunate mustard stain.

"That's because it was given to me in Geneva," blinked the Brigadier. It was not the smartest shirt he owned, admittedly: a bit flimsy and a touch too snug, in tissue-thin pale yellow jersey, the word genève in minimalist lowercase lettering above some sort of abstract cluster of shapes that were probably meant to represent some mountains. It did not enjoy many public outings. "You know, most military staff are only actually in uniform when they're on duty, don't you?"

"Yes, yes, of course," agreed the Doctor, poking experimentally at the hem of the Brigadier's sleeve. "I suppose I've not really spent much time with you off duty, old chap. We should correct this."

"I'm fairly certain we're correcting it now," eyerolled the Brigadier.

"I meant, after we get back to HQ," clarified the Doctor, as the footpath inclined up a gentle grassy slope, dotted with little yellow wildflowers.

"Ah," nodded the Brigadier, attempting to envision the pair of them doing various social activities: pub quiz nights, cricket matches, beer and kebabs, sandwiches and Pimms, the cinema, the theatre, coffee shops, tea rooms, dimly-lit nightclubs playing god-awful music with the Doctor sipping cocktails with far too many of his shirt buttons undone, chess games, poker games, drinking games, the Doctor coming round on the Brigadier's one weekend a month with Kate and beaming with pride at sneaking a schematic of Bessie's engine onto the children's art gallery segment of Vision On. Somewhere, the vision had strayed into the territory of the decidedly odd; rather, thought the Brigadier, he could quietly go over reports or performance reviews while the Doctor tinkered with that motorcar of his. That, he thought, would be time well spent together. "Where did you say we were going again?"

"I know a very good spot for a picnic," replied the Doctor, hopping gracefully over a small puddle.

"I don't suppose you could have parked the TARDIS any nearer?" squinted the Brigadier.

"A minor miscalculation, my dear," shrugged the Doctor, as they neared a small, shady wood. "Besides, getting there is half the fun. Trust me."


	2. Chapter 2

"… so then Jo said, what about the monster? Of course, the monster! Mind you, Aggador was really a lovely sort of chap once you got to know him. More like a big puppy, really. And besides, it turned out it was Hepesh we had to worry about all along, the scoundrel," said the Doctor.

The Brigadier had no idea what he was on about by this point in his meandering anecdote, but nodded as though he understood perfectly. Somewhere between have-I-told-you-about-the-time-Jo-and-I-blah-blah-blah and so-then-Jo-said, the Brigadier had allowed his attention to stray entirely to their surroundings: the suns were now obscured by a patch of thick trees, whose wide and heavy leaves swayed and fanned out just above them in shades of vibrant purple and green. The faint sound of melodic birdsong followed them through the little wood, though he could not see where they were nesting. They stepped carefully over masses of solid, twisted roots, which wound their way across the narrow path.

The Doctor seemed to take no notice of the Brigadier's absent reverie, beaming at him as he held a low-hanging branch out of their way.

"Oh I see," said the Brigadier, after what was probably an uncomfortably long pause following the end of the Doctor's story. "Well, glad to hear it all worked out in the end, what?"

"Quite," agreed the Doctor, though the Brigadier sensed something of a bemused tone in his voice. Oh well.

* * *

The task had fallen to the Brigadier to sit Kate down with a plate of Swedish pancakes - her favourite - and explain why she and Mum were moving to a new home without him. She accepted the news with the all bravery and stoicism of her Lethbridge-Stewart forebears, asked him if he was going to go live with Army, and if they would still have Swedish pancakes. It was then that he realized that he had been so absent that it made little difference to her where he lived after all.

The divorce had followed swiftly, and without argument. The Brigadier may have dusted slightly less often than Fiona had, but the adjustment had otherwise been minimal. He had to admit that his house felt slightly too large for just one person, however, and altogether too quiet.

* * *

"Doctor, surely you don't expect us to swim across, do you?" asked the Brigadier, squinting at the small, pale blue lake in front of him.

"Well, it is the fastest way from point A to point B," reasoned the Doctor, unbuttoning his jacket, "and by far the most pleasant."

The Brigadier shook his head.

"My dear Lethbridge-Stewart," chuckled the Doctor, "you're not afraid of getting your moustache wet, are you?"

"Certainly not," huffed the Brigadier, self-consciously adjusting his facial hair. "But if you think I'm spending the rest of my day off stomping about in soaking wet blue jeans, you're even more mad than I thought."

"My rucksack's waterproof, and your clothes will fit," explained the Doctor, unbuckling the clasp of his worryingly small bag.

"I hardly think so," blinked the Brigadier, suspiciously eyeing the Doctor.

"Simple physics, my dear. It's dimensionally transcendental," said the Doctor, improbably stuffing his jacket into the bag with perfect ease. "Just like the TARDIS. Haven't you ever wondered how it's bigger on the inside than the outside?"

"I try not to," grinned the Brigadier. Sometimes, and in absence of an actual emergency, he had learned that the best way to respond to the Doctor's scientific mumbo-jumbo was to nod mutely, inviting no further discourse. "You could have warned me to bring trunks, you know."

"Slipped my mind," replied the Doctor, shrugging out of his ludicrously frilly shirt. "Besides, there's no need to be shy all of a sudden, it's not like you've got anything I haven't seen before."

"Granted," the Brigadier acquiesced, shimmying grudgingly out of his snug trousers. It was, after all, not an excessive and sudden attack of modesty that had lent him misgivings in the first place; rather, the idea of swimming nude and unarmed across an alien lake on a planet goodness knows how far from England, on his day off, with nothing but the Doctor's assurances of safety, seemed far from prudent. And while risk came firmly with the territory of being the commanding officer of his branch of UNIT, there was necessary risk, and there was reckless, unnecessary idiocy. The Brigadier was not typically one to indulge in the latter.

He also sincerely hoped that the Doctor was not under the mistaken impression that he was blushing.

"Don't worry, my dear chap, I promise not to circulate any compromising polaroids to anyone at UNIT HQ," added the Doctor, with a playful smile.

"I should certainly hope not," replied the Brigadier, raising an eyebrow. "Of course, if you did, I could not be held responsible for anything that may happen to, oh, let's say, that mysterious experiment you've been tinkering with for the last month."

"You wouldn't," gasped the Doctor.

"You wouldn't," smirked the Brigadier.

"No, I wouldn't," laughed the Doctor.

"Me neither," smiled the Brigadier.

The water was warm, and far more buoyant than he had expected. It seemed to him now that he had accumulated so much tension in recent memory that he had forgotten how it felt to be completely and totally relaxed. Relaxation was not something his position easily allowed for, nor did he easily allow himself. It was good to be reminded.

"By a waterfallllllll, I'm calling you-hoo-hoo-hooooo," the Doctor sang to himself, swimming in playful circles around the Brigadier. "We could share it allllll, beneath a ceiling of bluuuuuue."

The Brigadier rolled his eyes. "Oh we could, could we, Doctor?" he said, with no small amount of sarcasm.

"We'll spend a heavenly daaaaaay," the Doctor continued undaunted, "here where the whispering waters play."

The Doctor finished his song with a boop on the Brigadier's nose, and smiled.

The Brigadier was sure that it was something about the properties of the lake that left him feeling suddenly lightheaded, and not how near to him the Doctor was floating. He felt his breath hitch as the Doctor's hand - quite by accident, of course - brushed against his shoulder beneath the water. As he closed his eyes, he could hear his heartbeat ringing in his ears with the ferocity of a waterfall.

A splash hit him quite rudely in the face as the Doctor turned round, resuming his swim. The Brigadier shook his head, and began, reluctantly, to follow him.

"Come along, Brigadier," he admonished, bringing the Brigadier's awareness fully back into the present, "we do want to get there some time today."

"Quite right, Doctor," the Brigadier agreed, allowing the water to carry him almost effortlessly across the lake.


	3. Chapter 3

"Just a little further now," the Doctor announced as they arrived at the foot of tall slope. "Brigadier, you're bleeding."

Blast, he thought, glancing down at the ugly gash on his arm. He had not even noticed.

"Must have been when I scratched it on one of those blasted bushes we passed through," he frowned, stopping to examine his arm.

"Oh dear," said the Doctor, testing the irritated skin with his fingertip, applying gentle pressure as though looking for something. "I probably should have mentioned that those bushes are toxic."

"Yes, I'd say you bloody well should have," snapped the Brigadier, eyes widening in surprise.

Just brilliant, he thought. Twenty proud years of military service, and how should he die? On holiday with his very special friend on the planet Lake District, felled by a pokey branch. He took a deep breath.

"How bad is it?" he asked gravely.

"Oh, nothing as bad as all that, old chap," smiled the Doctor. "Might be a bit of swelling for the next few days, that's all. Let me just get some antiseptic on it."

The Brigadier heaved a sigh, half out of relief, two-thirds out of annoyance. He was not surprised to see the Doctor produce a small first aid kit from his ostensibly bottomless rucksack.

"Now, I should warn you that this will sting a little," the Doctor said, moistening a small puff of absorbent cotton wool.

The Brigadier rolled his eyes. "No need to patronize me," he replied. "If I can survive bullet wounds, I think I can survive an attack by a bit of soft cotton."

In spite of himself, the Brigadier let out a small hiss of protest, grimacing slightly as the antiseptic made contact with his broken skin. The Doctor quietly hummed a soothing, unfamiliar tune as he dabbed at the wound, gently holding the Brigadier's arm with his other hand.

The Brigadier was loath to admit just how comforted he was by the contact.

"There we are," announced the Doctor, smoothing a fresh bandage into place.

The Brigadier had casually noticed the Doctor's tattoo, on those rare occasions he had his sleeves rolled; it was only here, however, that he allowed himself to wonder what it might mean. It would seem, thought the Brigadier, that in spite of their close – albeit sometimes trying – companionship, there were many things he still did not know about the Doctor, and, in turn, many things the Doctor did not know about him.

"Just what is the story of that tattoo of yours, if I may ask?" he ventured as they began their ascent.

"What, this?" replied the Doctor, glancing at his forearm. "Came with this new body of mine. Well, I guess you could call it a prison tattoo."

"A planet-sized prison?" squinted the Brigadier. "That's not very charitable of you, dear fellow."

"Yes, and neither were the stuffy old fusspots who decided to strand me without a working TARDIS," observed the Doctor, crossing his arms petulantly.

"It suits you, for what it's worth," he said, by way of some little consolation.

"Ah, well, thank you," replied the Doctor, grinning to himself.

Being on Earth never seemed like a limitation to the Brigadier. Sometimes he forgot that the Doctor was accustomed to a range of travel so vast that, not long ago, it would have been impossible for the Brigadier to conceive of. As terrifying as it was as times, he was grateful to the Doctor for that knowledge.

* * *

"It's getting late, don't you think?" worried the Brigadier as they reached the top of the hill. "You do know we need to be back at HQ eventually."

"My dear Lethbridge-Stewart, must you be so linear?" sighed the Doctor, laying a bright, soft blanket across the soft grass. "If you'd like, I could have us back at HQ a mere five minutes after we left."

"That won't be necessary," replied the Brigadier. Time travel, of course, he thought. For all he knew they were visiting this planet in the year five trillion and six, and would be home in time for tea. That was, of course, if the Doctor did not overshoot their return by several weeks and the Brigadier found himself facing a court-martial for wandering off.

"Whatever you say," shrugged the Doctor. "Just name a time, and I'll have us back in time for it."

"Just so long as we're not back late, that will do," eyerolled the Brigadier.

"You have my word," grinned the Doctor, patting the blanket beside him.

"Yes," smirked the Brigadier, sitting beside him, "for what it's worth."

"Tsk, cheeky!" replied the Doctor, feigning insult with a wink. "Now, let's open up the picnic hamper, shall we?"

It was then that the Brigadier took a moment to survey their surroundings: a vast field of tall grass shimmered beneath them to the west, almost iridescent beneath the waning sun; to the east, fireflies glittered in and out of tall trees which swayed in the gentle breeze, as though performing an elaborate dance for the two of them alone.

"Incredible," he whispered. The Doctor seemed to take no notice, instead opening the hamper, and placing its contents before them on the blanket.

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" he asked, unwrapping a wedge of brie.

"Hmm? Oh, nothing," flustered the Brigadier, feigning interest in their bottle of wine.

"You'll like that red," said the Doctor, handing him a corkscrew. "A handsome vintage, very dry, with an assertive personality, but a very kind heart."

"Thank you Doctor," he smiled.

* * *

The Doctor had rather slightly overestimated the amount of food the two of them could eat in the course of one picnic; nevertheless, the Brigadier had managed to polish off three miniature pork pies, half a baguette, most of a wedge of brie, rather a lot of prawn salad, heaps of tomatoes, more wine than sense, and a chutney and cheese on soft brioche.

"Judy Collins," said the Brigadier, finishing his sandwich.

"Sorry?" blinked the Doctor, just about to bite into a cherry tomato.

"Judy Collins," repeated the Brigadier. "Are you fond of her?"

"Is that the one who works in the canteen, short hair, big glasses?" he guessed. "Yes, very nice girl. You're not thinking of asking her on a date, are you?"

"No, that's Jodie, and she always puts too much mayonnaise in the egg sandwiches," sighed the Brigadier. "Judy Collins is a singer. I have - had, rather - a few of her records. Lovely voice."

"Had?" asked the Doctor.

"Fiona has them," he elaborated.

"Ah, right," said the Doctor. "Well, there's no reason you couldn't replace them. I'd love to hear them."

"Quite," agreed the Brigadier, allowing himself a small smile. "Gorgonzola, is it?"

The Doctor nodded. "You should try it with a bit of the pear," he said.

* * *

Having finished off an abundance of sandwiches, cheese, fruits, vegetables, a lovely bit of foie gras, and an admittedly very moreish red wine, the Doctor announced with an almost worrying grin that it was time for pudding. Their pudding, it turned out, was an exceptionally good single malt. The Brigadier was already feeling the glow of a few glasses of wine and the sleepy satisfaction of having spent the day leisurely hiking across a foreign planet; a good dose of quality scotch was, it turned out, the perfect thing to finish off the evening. He was not sure at what point in the bottle that the conversation had turned to the awkwardly serious, but once it had, he was too fuzzy to steer it away with any skill.

"Tell me something, Doctor," he began carefully, "did you invite me on this weekend because you felt bad about my divorce?"

"Not at all," shrugged the Doctor. "Do you feel bad about your divorce?"

"Not especially," replied the Brigadier, idly swirling the liquid in his glass, transfixed by the smooth waves. "As much as is to be expected, I suppose."

"Yes, I suppose so," agreed the Doctor, pouring himself a refill. "If you must know, I just wanted to show you this planet, dear chap. Besides, I am awfully fond of your company, you know."

"Ah," nodded the Brigadier with a small smile. "Well, I'm rather fond of you as well, as it happens."

The Doctor nodded quietly, watching the lights of the fireflies twinkling through his glass.

"I do miss Kate," the Brigadier continued, downing the last of his drink, relishing the smooth burn. "It feels as though she barely knows me. Now she just knows I don't live with them anymore."

"She knows you still love her," the Doctor said softly.

"Does she, though?" the Brigadier was not so sure. He knew well enough how easy it would be for Kate to resent him for missing so many school plays and football matches and half her birthdays, and just the everyday, dinnertimes and bedtimes and Sunday breakfasts.

"She knows," repeated the Doctor, placing a reassuring hand on the Brigadier's arm. The Brigadier had not meant to become so maudlin. The single malt had been a bad idea. "Brigadier, have I ever told you about my granddaughter?"


	4. Chapter 4

"I hope you don't mind sleeping alfresco, do you, old chap?" asked the Doctor, sprawled supine over the picnic blanket, hands clasped leisurely behind his head and gazing into the darkening aubergine sky. "Wonderful night for it."

"Not at all," said the Brigadier, choosing not to mention that, had he known, he would have brought his blue pyjamas. "Good night, Doctor."

"Good night, dear fellow," replied the Doctor, smiling. His smile was the kind that accompanied an ounce or two too many, that lingered almost a little too long, that left the Brigadier wondering where the line was drawn between necessary risk and reckless, unnecessary idiocy. The Brigadier felt the sudden need to reach out, to say or do something, but what that something might have been eluded him completely. Before a decision could be made and a line drawn or crossed, the Doctor turned, closing his eyes for the night.

The stars in the sky above them seemed to swim then, swirling slowly this way and that, though the Brigadier was fairly certain that that was likely the lingering effects of the single malt. He turned on his side instead, shutting his eyes tightly.

Sometime in half-sleep, as the crickets sang them strangely harmonious lullabies, he heard the Doctor seem to mumble something he could not understand, and felt a hand reach out to him, groping blindly in the dark before capturing his wrist, drawing his arm forward. He could have flinched or turned away, but stayed instead, leaning into him with sleep-heavy acceptance. It was too late and too dark to allow himself to question what any of it meant, whether it was a gesture of gratitude, or of comfort, or love: a reflex, or an intention. These uncertainties, it seemed, were left for the daytime. The Doctor felt comfortable and warm, and smelled faintly of sandalwood and honey, his breaths rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. Almost asleep, almost dreaming, and without thinking of consequences or motivation, the Brigadier allowed himself to place a tender kiss against the back of the Doctor's neck, and then another, and one more, then let himself drift out of consciousness for the night.

Some hours later – the Brigadier could not say for certain how many, but it felt like quite enough – a warm light and the sound of distant birdsong returned them gently to wakefulness.

"Morning, Brigadier," mumbled the Doctor, turning to face him with a sleepy smile, still half cradled in his arms. "Fancy a little light breakfast, then?"

"Oh, quite," replied the Brigadier, sleepily rubbing his eyes.

"Right," announced the Doctor, springing to his feet. "Let's try a little local flavour, shall we?"

Before the Brigadier could ask what that meant, the Doctor had harvested a handful of round green fruits from a small nearby tree.

"Here," he said, tossing a fruit to the Brigadier with a wink. "Breakfast!"

The fruit was about the size of a damson, its perfumed fragrance exotic and sweet. Inside, it was altogether unfamiliar: its delicate flavor was reminiscent of orange blossoms and vanilla; the texture was almost that of soft custard. He closed his eyes involuntarily, letting out an undignified whimper of perfect pleasure.

"Not bad?" grinned the Doctor.

The Brigadier rolled his eyes. "Yes, thank you Doctor," he said dryly, collecting himself, before adding, warmer, "it really is very good, actually."

The two suns had just begun their ascent into the air, blanketing the hill in gentle illumination as the sky transitioned from deep violet to a more familiar blue. Just above the trees in the distance, a pair of dark butterflies fluttered together against the brightening sky, weaving playfully in and out of each other's paths. The effects of the night's entertainment still fizzed at the edges of the Brigadier's awareness, and though the rich fruit seemed to have begun to restore his normal sense of clarity, he was grateful to see that the Doctor was making coffee.

"I'm afraid I'm no Sergeant Benton when it comes to making coffee," apologised the Doctor. He handed a warm cup to the Brigadier, who cradled it in his hands, taking in the wakeful aroma. It tasted instant, but fine. Sergeant Benton had not completely spoiled him, after all.

"I must say I'm surprised," mused the Brigadier as they sat together, surveying the morning scene as they sipped their coffees. "You've brought me in that TARDIS of yours to an alien planet who knows how far from earth, and in the two days we've been here, apart from the exploding shrubs and those toxic branches, no major catastrophes have happened. I dare say it's nearly a miracle, Doctor."

"My dear Lethbridge-Stewart, have you so little faith in me?" scoffed the Doctor, slinging an arm around the Brigadier's shoulders.

"More or less," smirked the Brigadier, setting down his empty cup.

"Honestly," the Doctor shook his head with a smile,finishing the last of his drink with a sigh of satisfaction.

The Brigadier raised an eyebrow, pausing to regard the Doctor for a moment. It was as good a time as any for reckless idiocy, he thought, folding the Doctor into a warm embrace.

"Steady on, old chap," chuckled the Doctor, returning the hug.

The Brigadier had never been one for spontaneous outpourings of affection, admittedly: here, however, it seemed that this gesture summed up what he wished to communicate far more succinctly than any attempt at speaking. He could hear the Doctor's comfortingly strange heartbeat as they leaned into each other, holding on tightly: what he wanted to say, he knew, was understood.

"Brigadier," whispered the Doctor.

"Hmm?" murmured the Brigadier.

"Your moustache is tickling my neck," said the Doctor.

* * *

"And... that's just about everything," announced the Doctor, having miraculously crammed all of their things back into his improbably tiny bag.

"Shall we start back to the TARDIS, then?" asked the Brigadier, turning back the way they'd come.

"Not that way, Brigadier," corrected the Doctor with a mischievous grin, swinging an arm around the Brigadier's shoulders to guide him. "I thought this time we could take the scenic route."

The Brigadier smiled, in spite of himself. He had to admit, after all, that sometimes the Doctor's ideas were, in fact, a little bit clever. This, it turned out, had been exactly what he needed.


End file.
